


Heaven Picks the Place

by elgrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Ending, Canon-typical tea consumption, F/M, Gen, Jon/Martin, M/M, Rosie makes the best of things, She's just a nice person ok, Y'know Rosie has seen some shit, cw: manipulation, elias/the horse he rode in on, honestly what must this place even look like to a normal person, smiling/flirting/touching asmr, tim/rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elgrey/pseuds/elgrey
Summary: Sure, the Magnus Institute kind of looks like a crumbling ruin from the outside, and yes of course it was made a laughingstock when all those preposterous documents leaked, but-- well. Someone's got to run the front desk, haven't they? Rosie supposes it may as well be her.A series of vignettes over Rosie's first six months at the Institute, from August 2015 to January 2016.





	1. August

“Ms. Cunningham, is it?” Elias Bouchard clasped her hand warmly, creases deepening in the corners of his eyes. 

“Just Rosie will do, thank you, Mr. Bouchard,” she trilled, dipping into a small curtsy before she could stop herself. She cringed. “Ah, sorry. Old Catholic school habit.” She dropped into the chair Elias indicated.

“Not a problem at all. _ Rosie _.” She returned the friendly smile he flashed her way. “St. Brigid’s National School, was it, in Kildare?”

“Yes sir!” Rosie leaned forward eagerly. “Born an’ raised in Kildare, and just completed my History bachelor’s at UCL.”

“Very good,” he said, scanning a sheet of paper she could only assume was her CV. She wondered, briefly, why she hadn’t taken off the bit about St. Brigid’s. Must have been a relic from when she was applying to part-time gigs between classes, before she finished her degree. Mr. Bouchard’s voice snapped her attention back.

“And you’ve done reception work before, is that right?”

“Yes, sir, I have. Been doing front desk and scheduling for a hairdresser’s this past year or so, and before that I did a bit of hotel concierge work.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Bouchard said, and laid her CV flat on the desk. He steepled his fingers and considered her, leaning back in his chair.

“Why the Magnus Institute?” he asked.

“Always wanted to work in a grand old place like this one,” Rosie supplied without hesitation. “I mean, I love history-- obviously, what with my degree an’ all-- but I like the idea of interacting with people too. A museum’s too stuffy, too-- stagnant, I suppose. I wanted a place where I could keep learning but chat with folk too. And normally I’d be a bit shy about applying with as little experience as I have but I remember when I was just a wee girl and you were all in the news with your leaked statements so I figured you lot weren’t probably in a position to be too discerning with your front o’ house hires.” 

Rosie stopped, eyes wide, both hands splayed over her mouth. “Oh! Mr. Bouchard, I am so, so sorry, that’s absolutely inexcusable of me, I don’t know _ what _came over me--”

“That’s alright, Rosie, no need to apologize.” 

The smirk he wore now reminded Rosie abruptly of the first time she’d ever seen his face, six years old and poring over her nan’s copy of The Sun on one of their holiday visits. A grainy shot of Elias Bouchard, fifteen years younger than the man before her now but virtually unchanged, wreathed by the headline “TRICK OR TREAT? BOUCHARD DENIES AUTHENTICITY OF LEAKED DOCUMENTS FROM DISGRACED LONDON INSTITUTE.”

“For what it’s worth,” she offered now, cheeks burning, “My uncle’s a historian too, and he always thought the leak was a ploy to get the tabloids to leave you alone, so you could carry on with your real work in peace.”

“A very generous interpretation,” Mr. Bouchard said, sounding appeased. “Especially as so many outlets were quick to dismiss my insistence that most of the statements had been fabricated. There have certainly been prouder moments in the Institute’s history, but the show must go on. Tell me, Rosie, do you believe in the paranormal?”

“I suppose I must do, comin’ from the family I have. I’m not a-- a conspiracy nut, or anything, but we all have our little traditions that we cling to. Leaving bread out for the wee folk, things of that ilk. Can’t say I put much stock in it, myself, but I don’t see no harm in keeping observances out of respect.”

“Interesting. And do you speak of this to many people?”

Rosie laughed. “Oh, no, sir. Hardly anyone except them what think to ask, such as yourself. Honestly, I hardly think of the wee folk myself.”

“Except when you see your tattoo.”

“I-- yes, I suppose so. How did you…?”

Mr. Bouchard nodded to her arm. “If I may?”

Cheeks burning again, Rosie rolled up the sleeve of her blouse, cursing Primark for the cheap fabric she was convinced must be all but translucent.

The tattoo nestled above the crook of her right elbow, a spray of three star-shaped yellow flowers and a sprig of green behind them. “St. John’s Wort,” she explained, “shakes off any fairy influence.”

He smiled broadly at her, apparently pleased. “Fascinating. I would be pleased to offer you the role, Rosie, if you are still interested?”

“Oh! Ah… yes, of course! What, um…” the immediacy of the offer had taken her aback. She fought to remember the interview follow-up questions she’d memorized from the internet. “What will the next steps look like?” Hurriedly, she added, “And, thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Bouchard. I won’t let you down.”

“Just Elias, if you please, Rosie. We’ll be working together, after all.” He-- _Elias_\-- stood from behind his desk. She scrambled to follow his lead. “I’ll have your official offer letter prepared and sent over to you by the end of the day today. Do please try to sign everything by week’s end-- I’d like to have you start Monday, if you would be amenable to it.”

“Sure,” she said, a little breathless. As he took her elbow to lead her out, she glanced wide-eyed around the room, astonished at the idea that she too would be working here as soon as next week. As she did, her gaze fell on Elias’ desk; she realized with a jolt that the paper he’d been studying was not her CV, but was in fact entirely blank.

She glanced up at him to ask, and the door closed firmly behind her.


	2. September

Despite its ominous facade and rather ridiculous reputation, the Magnus Institute was actually a fairly  _ nice _ place to work. At least, Rosie thought so.

It had only taken a week or two for her to begin thinking of the crumbling columns that flanked the massive arched double doors as charming, instead of creepy, and much less time than that for the high ceilings and echoing marble floors of the entry hall to become comfortably airy in her mind rather than imposing. Sure, the massive image of an owl inlaid into the floor with dark stone and the Latin motto set in brass around him had an air of Halloween kitsch, but once Rosie settled into the rhythm and atmosphere of working there she came to think of it all rather affectionately.

Usually she was the first one in each morning, and would go about poking in the old-fashioned brass light switches and humming to herself, greeting the owl in the floor as an old friend as she did (she’d nicknamed him Virgil-- the motto said Vigilo, of course, but Virgil was as nice a name as any and was close enough, to her eye).

So she’d get the lights on and put away her coat and fix a cup of tea, and settle behind the large curved wooden desk. She would carefully line up the sign-in sheets and the cup of pens (she’d brought in some silk flowers in friendly, cheerful shades of yellow and pink and attached them to the boring black biros with floral tape to liven things up), and she’d open up her email and wait for the staff to come in.

That was her favorite part, really. The few folk who had arrived to offer their experiences in the time she’d been working had varied wildly from distraught to utterly professional, and chatting with them was always interesting, but once she’d gotten them set up with their intake forms and ushered them to the lounge in the archives where they could write out their statement she didn’t get to say much else to them.

The staff, though-- her  _ colleagues _ , she reminded herself with a thrill-- she’d see on their way in in the mornings, and their way out in the evenings, and going back and forth from lunch. There were a fair few dozen people working at the Institute, she reckoned, but by her third week she was pretty sure she could recognize them all.

There was Tom, who worked in the library with Hannah ( _ so  _ sweet) and Diana (flat-out terrifying) on the first floor, who always paused to give her a high-five or fistbump as he passed her desk on his way to the stairs. Rosie figured he must have done a term in American university or something-- where else would one pick up such a habit? She fought to keep his name straight with Tim, who was a wildly handsome outdoorsy type who for some reason worked in the basement Archives with the intolerably rude new archivist, Jon something, who’d started his new role right around the time she came on board.

There were a few people her own age working in Research up the top floor of the building, whose invitation to go for a pint after work Rosie only took once (she prided herself on learning from her mistakes); there were the artefact custodians, immediately identifiable by their haggard expressions and the dark circles beneath their eyes. She was mostly alone on the ground floor save for Sharon and Janet, who managed the cafe and gift shop, respectively, and who were so familiar with each other and so alike Rosie thought they must be sisters.

And then there was Martin, the first of her colleagues she would have called a friend, who seemed to be always fixing a cuppa at the same time she did and always trying to carry more mugs down to the basement than one man could reasonably manage. She’d volunteered to help the first time she saw him juggling all four, and when she caught him attempting to stack up a fifth one day he’d blushed and admitted he was about to bring it out to her desk. It didn’t take much for Rosie to take a shine to someone; after that gesture, she was all in for team Martin.

Martin had been at the Institute far longer than she would have guessed, going solely by appearance, but had moved from Research to the Archives when Jon took over. He introduced her to Tim (“I’ve already had the pleasure,” Tim had purred, and had swept up Rosie’s hand for a showy kiss that made Martin squeak and Rosie laugh), and Sasha, who Rosie  _ immediately  _ idolized with her glossy black hair and chic oversize blazers and retro circle glasses.

It was a good gig, Rosie thought, beaming a goodbye to the Research team as they made their way out into the golden light of a Friday afternoon. People were friendly, mostly-- she thought darkly for a moment on Jon the asshole archivist, who had refused her relentlessly cheerful “Good morning!” every day that week and who she had yet to see leave before she did in the evenings-- but even with that, she also got access to the library on her breaks. Bit spooky for her tastes, really, but lots in there about folk lore and old Welsh kings and other things she’d touched on in uni but hadn’t had the time to follow through with. Plus the pay was  _ very  _ nice, and Elias had told her she should feel free to start planning the holiday party if she was so inclined.

A very good gig indeed, she thought, and winked a goodbye to Virgil the marble floor owl as she closed and locked the ancient doors behind her.


	3. October

“Got a crush, Martin?” Rosie teased, and Martin promptly dropped his armload of documents as he spluttered a rebuttal. 

“What? I-- no! Rosie! What?”

She laughed and knelt to the floor, helping him shuffle and stack the files and neaten out his notebooks.

“It’s your tapes,” she explained, “I’ve been seeing you carry ‘em back and forth to the basement! I haven’t seen tapes since I was in primary school an’ the boys used to make mixtapes for us to ask us out an’ the like.”

“Mix tapes?” Martin’s dark, kind eyes had lost their panicked edge. He grinned at her. “I would have thought you’d be too young for that, Rosie Cunningham.”

She laughed and straightened up, accepting his hand to get to her feet. “It takes ten years for any fad to reach Kildare,” she teased. “The rest of the world was screaming Y2K just as we got our first Walkman.” 

“Well, for the record, the tapes are for Jon--”

“Y’got a crush on  _ Jon _ ?” Rosie interjected playfully, and Martin’s blush returned with a vengeance. She smiled at him and tucked away a mental note of the reaction.

“--the  _ tapes  _ are for  _ the statements!  _ For the  _ archivist _ !” 

Rosie chucked his shoulder, laughing to break the tension. “A’right, a’right, I’m only playing with you. Why are the statements going onto tapes?”

Martin composed himself, leaning against the edge of her desk. “I-- I’m not entirely sure, to be honest with you. J-- the  _ archivist _ has had trouble digitising some of the files, I guess? So he’s experimenting with different methods for making redundant copies.”

“Huh,” Rosie said. She leaned next to him on the desk. “Let me fix you a cuppa, then I’ll help you carry down all these files. And the tapes. Alright?”

“Alright,” Martin said, returning her smile.

“I still think it’s mix tapes,” Rosie said conspiratorially.

“The world’s  _ worst  _ mix tapes,” Martin muttered.

“An’ I  _ do _ think you’re sweet on Jon,” she whispered back.


	4. November

Rosie wasn’t ready to give her mix tape theory a rest, if for no other reason than she found the idea of the flustered, grumpy archives staff mooning about over each other and exchanging playlists utterly charming, and so in an abundance of caution she bought a battered old tape player from a charity shop. Just in case anyone wanted to drop off a mix tape for her.

Tim, maybe.

Just in case.

Work went on, falling into a steady rhythm as the days got shorter. She had a rotating cast of lunch friends now, which was lovely, and her favorite days were the ones Martin would invite her to tag along with him and Tim and Sasha (which were followed, inevitably, by afternoons spent searching online for sale-priced versions of whatever Sasha had been wearing). 

She tried-- and failed-- to convince Elias to let her set up a social media presence for the Institute, and she embraced the season’s turn toward winter by way of diving headlong into holiday party planning.

Rosie was knee-deep in an Amazon price comparison between gold or silver tinsel when she was interrupted from her search by a slight cough.

“Hello, can I help you?” she was saying, bright smile already in place, before she lifted her eyes to realize the person standing awkwardly before her was Jonathan Sims. _ Bastard. _“Oh. Hello, Mr. Sims.”

Rosie was not a naturally cold person, and despite her dislike for the man she did have to fight to keep her voice on the cool side of neutral. It was the principle of the thing, really.

“Ah, yes. Rosie. Hello.”

This was going well. She raised an eyebrow at him.

Jon sighed and scrubbed at his forehead with the back of one hand, knocking his glasses askew.

“Listen. I, er… I believe I owe you an apology. I-- I mentioned to Martin I was coming up to talk to you, and he advised I start with that. So. I’m. Sorry?”

Jon stared at her rather helplessly, and Rosie was struck by the fact that he was not a tall man-- it didn’t matter, of course, but she’d always been so preoccupied by his bad attitude she hadn’t noticed that he was not actually a very imposing figure at all.

In fact, looking at him now, his glasses slightly crooked and tie loosened from a rather wilted-looking collar, she was struck by the fact that he was really quite a _ young _man. She’d thought of him as Elias’ age, or nearly, but seeing him up close he looked to be closer to Martin or even Rosie herself.

She took all this in, and the last vestige of her reservations melted away. She smiled at him warmly.

“D’you know why you’d be apologizing, then?”

Jon seemed confused by her change in tone, but grateful. “I, er. I really don’t. Martin said I should?”

“He’s a smart lad, that one. I imagine it’s because I grouse to him about his rude boss, who never gives me back a _ Good morning _ or a _ How are y’now _.”

Jon cringed and adjusted his glasses, self-consciously ran his hand through his hair. “That might well be it. I am… I am sorry to have been rude, Rosie.” The sincerity in his voice broadened her smile.

“That’s all well, Jon, I thank ye for it.” 

He returned her smile hesitantly. “I would wish you a good morning now, but, ah…” they both glanced out the glass panels beside the front doors, where dark slashes of rain punctuated the gloom of a late autumn evening. “Rather not the time, I think.”

“Go on, then,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “You said you were starting there. What else can I do for you?”

“Yes, well. I was just going over an older statement in which the, ah, subject, er... purported to have some foreknowledge of Gertrude Robinson’s future ill fortune. And, well. I am not sure she ever saw it. So, I was rather hoping-- that is, if it isn’t too much to ask of you, all things considered-- would you be so kind as to let me know when a new statement has been made? So that I might review it immediately?”

“Just in case the statement has details about your upcoming grisly murder, you mean?”

The color drained from Jon’s face. “M-murder?”

Rosie reached across her desk to pat his hand reassuringly. “I’m joking! I just don’t imagine you, y'know, keeling over of natural causes at your desk. That's all! I’m sorry if I, ah... hit a nerve.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Jon muttered, collecting himself. “Did-- did you know Gertrude?”

Rosie shook her head. “Can’t say I did. I started just about the same time as you did, you know. At least, about the time you took on your new role. Elias was tellin’ me about it during my orientation.”

“Ah... yes, of course.” Jon said. Rosie could tell he was already miles away. “That’s all as well, then.”

“Mr. Sims?” Rosie asked. “Jon?

He turned his attention back to her. “Hm?”

“Martin said you’re puttin’ ‘em to tapes. The statements. S’that right?”

“Yes, yes, some of them. The ones that are… resistant to other means of digitising.”

“Well, next time somebody comes in, you want me to set ‘em up with a recorder?” Rosie felt around her desk for a moment before coming up with the dated and dusty tape deck she’d been hanging onto and held it up. “I’ve got one up here, just in case.”

“That’s-- that’s very thoughtful of you, Rosie, thank you. Please do.”

“Sure thing,” she grinned, and popped it back into a drawer. “And I’ll jus’ send over a copy once they’ve finished.”

Jon nodded at her. "And you, er-- you haven't... seen... anything strange lately?"

Rosie tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

Jon tugged his hand through his hair again, sighing. Rosie couldn't but help but notice how grey it was, at odds with his unlined face. "Nothing, just-- if anything seems, I don't know. Off? Anything threatening?"

"Threatening? No," Rosie said with a small laugh. "I mean, I did see Janet run out some chav who'd stolen a fountain pen or some such from the gift shop last week. Don't think I've ever seen her so irate. But nothin' threatening or, ah. Unnatural. If that's what you mean?"

Jon nodded again, as if deciding something, and set his mouth in a determined line. "Good," he said at last. "Well. Ah. Goodbye, then. Rosie." He flashed her a gesture that might have been a wave as he turned and made his way down to the basement once again.

“G'bye, Jon," Rosie called to him cheerfully. "And be mindful of those murderers!” 

She watched his shoulders stiffen, but he didn’t turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, swaying Jon Archivist back and forth in the air: stinky bastard man


	5. December

“D’ye really believe all that, then?” Rosie asked from atop her stepladder, wrangling a tinsel garland around one of the pillars in the entry hall. “The-- spooks and scares?”

She glanced down at Tim, who was holding her ladder steady and staring intently up at her rear end.

“Sorry, what?”

“Tim!” She chucked down a handful of loose tinsel and he ducked, laughing. A few strands caught in the thick wave of his hair. Rosie smiled fondly at the sight, just a little, before she could tamp it down.

“I was asking if you believe in it! The statements. All the spooky stuff.”

“Well, first, don’t let Old Man Sims hear you saying the S-word or he’ll be writing a strongly worded post-it note to Elias.”

“What? _ Spooky _?”

“That’s the one.” Tim held out a hand to help her down from the ladder, but Rosie ignored it to descend primly on her own. It’s the principle of the thing, she thought.

“I don’t know what else you’d call ‘em,” she said, “without it sounding too over-dramatic. _ Paranormal _ , I suppose. I don’t know-- I don’t have access to the statements, o’ course, but just chatting with folk what come through reception I’m not sure I really get the pervading sense of-- you know-- of, like, _ Monsters are real _.”

“Fair enough,” Tim shrugged. He hefted a large wreath from the table of decor Rosie had set up and nodded toward the doors. “Will you spot me if I hang this one?”

She nodded and waited until he was safely atop the ladder before continuing. “I’m just curious, you know. If everyone here is a skeptic, or what. I honestly can’t tell.”

And it was true-- after working at the Institute for nearly four months, she knew very well the official line (“We research the paranormal, we do not perform exorcisms nor do we directly investigate haunted locations,” had to be repeated politely over the phone a dozen times a week) but she still had no idea what the Institute’s true mission was. Sure, their motto said to ‘Listen, Watch, Wait’-- but wait _ for what _?

“I mean, personally,” Tim was saying, in a voice that sounded intensely and intentionally casual, “I believe it. The monster stuff. I’ve, y’know. Had brushes with it.”

“You _ have _?”

Tim shrugged again. “None worth talking about, but yeah. That’s not to say I believe _ everything _that comes across my desk. Some of it’s just ridiculous. But I think most of us here are some balance of skeptic and believer.” He broke the tension with a smile so precise and private it could pick a lock. (Rosie suspected he’d probably wielded it to exactly those ends). “Take you, for example.”

Rosie snorted. “Me? I’m hardly a believer.”

“But you still wear an adder stone on a silver chain,” he pointed out. “What is it you expect to see when you’re looking through it, hm?”

Rosie’s hand went to her chest immediately and she flushed, reminded uncomfortably of Elias asking about her tattoo the very first time she had walked through the same double doors she and Tim were now decorating.

“But I always keep it hidden away!” she protested, “I don’t-- how did you--”

Tim turned from her again, adjusting the wreath with a wicked grin and calling over his shoulder, “Y’know that green top you’ve got?”

“I-- yes? What, this one I’m wearing?”

“Yeah,” he said, “that first button doesn’t stick. And, you know, if someone-- a _ gentleman _\-- were to lean over your desk in the course of a friendly conversation while you were sat there, well…” he shrugged and flicked a bauble on the wreath, starting back down the ladder. “Hardly his fault if he notices what’s underneath, is it?”

“Timothy Stoker, this is harassment!” It was, probably, but Rosie’s confusion had suffused with a delighted warmth at his attention. She paused a moment, then hooked her finger around the chain and tugged until the adder stone dropped into her palm.

She held it to her face, closing one eye and squinting through the small, smooth hole the Liffey had left some lifetimes before she had found it and fished it from the river. 

“I’ll tell you what I’m seeing right now,” Rosie said, peering up at him through it. “A wee pervert. That’s what.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her, hovering on the last step. “I am _ every inch _a gentleman, miss Cunningham, I assure you.” He reached his hand out. “Help an innocent man off his ladder?”

“Well, I never,” she huffed, sounding uncomfortably like her mother, but she dropped her stone down her collar once more and took his hand as he hopped off the last rung.

Tim didn’t quite let her hand go as he stepped down, and then stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and suddenly Rosie was aware that he smelled very nice and was quite a bit taller than her and wondered, distantly, if he could still see her old river stone from this vantage point.

“You’ve got tinsel in your hair,” she said, abruptly rather breathless.

“Go on, then,” Tim said, bowing his head a bit, and with her free hand she reached up, realizing as she did how close it brought their faces, and then--

“Everything alright?” Martin’s voice, characteristically worried, echoed in the marble hall.

“Oh, quite,” Tim said, the picture of ease, while Rosie flung both hands away from him and fairly jumped backward. “Rosie’s just trying to scrap with me, is all.”

“Oh, don’t fight,” Martin fretted, hurrying to them. “It’s Christmas!”

“I had to defend myself, Martin! She told me I looked a perv.”

Martin’s mouth twitched to one side and he said nothing.

“And all because I was trying to tell her she’s as cute as Emma Bunton. I was trying to be _ nice, _Martin, you know me.”

_ “ _ Baby Spice, _ really _?” Rosie spluttered, taken aback. “Martin, don’t listen to him, that is not what--”

Martin’s face had relaxed now from his customary lines of worry, and he scrunched his nose at them. “More Billie Piper, I’d think. Sasha, what would you say?”

Sasha, who must have followed Martin up from the basement while Rosie was otherwise _ distracted _ , pursed her lips and gave Rosie a thoughtful once-over. “Carey Mulligan,” Sasha declared. The boys both _ mmm _ed in agreement. “Great blouse, Rosie, by the way. Love that color for you.”

Rosie beamed, embarrassment forgotten.

\--

Their Christmas party was due to kick off at close of business that day, but with the entry hall being fully decorated by lunchtime and the punch table set up shortly thereafter, it was more or less impossible to keep the bored and tired Institute staff away from what was apparently the first staff celebration anyone could remember in a very long time.

Even stodgy Jon eventually emerged from his cave-like Archives-- ostensibly to figure out why all three of his assistants had been missing for the better part of the day, yes, but Rosie’s determination to host a successful party had her pressing a glass of punch into his hand before he could turn around and leave again.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Sims,” she said, daring to peck a kiss onto his cheek. It wasn’t _ her _first glass of punch, after all.

Jon made a sound like startled cat, then pretended he had been merely clearing his throat. “Ah. Hm. Yes. Happy Christmas, Rosie. Congratulations on your party.”

He finally met her eyes and she was surprised to find him looking openly uncertain-- _ vulnerable _, almost, color high in his cheeks and only a shadow of his usual frown. The piece of her heart that broke each time she fell for clickbait about orphaned kittens gave an uncomfortable twinge. 

“That’s sweet of you to say, Jon, thank you,” she said, voice wrapped in soft warmth as fuzzy as a Christmas jumper. 

After a breath, he returned her smile. Then: 

“If I may, er--” he said, brow creasing, and raised his hands hesitantly. “--your crown is a bit crooked. Just there.” 

Slowly, carefully, he adjusted her flimsy tissue crown.

Rosie giggled, tipsy and delighted at his uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture, and threw her arm around him impulsively. “Ah, you’re a good egg!” 

He didn’t wince at the contact, exactly, but she could feel the tension in his shoulder under her touch. Retreat was not an option. She doubled down, drawing him closer to her side with a light squeeze. 

“I’m glad you came out, you deserve a break! I think it’s aces, actually!”

Jon tensed further. “I-- _ what _?”

Rosie leaned closer to his ear, misreading his bewilderment, and fairly shouted, “The party? I said it turned out brilliant! I mean, I hope it did. I’m just happy you’re here!”

She watched Jon turn narrow eyes to the rest of the crowded hall, packed with gossiping and laughing colleagues in the early stages of a not-entirely-appropriate drunkenness. Rosie, herself among the fluthered, felt a happy glow at seeing the usually dour staff turned out in festive jumpers and the odd cracker crown.

Beside her, Jon uttered only a recalcitrant, “Er.”

“Let’s find Martin an’ the rest,” she announced, and steered him deeper into the crowd before he could object.

\--

As the party wound down late that night Rosie found herself idly collecting discarded cups, hovering around the edges of the room, eavesdropping benevolently on those who had not yet headed home. She’d switched to water and then strong tea some hours back, but was nonetheless flush with a feeling of satisfaction over a successful evening. She’d never been allowed to plan something like this before. She wondered if there was some way to incorporate “event planning” on her CV without sounding naff.

“Are you going to wait us all out, Rosie?”

Tim’s voice shook her from her thoughts. “Wasn’t planning to! Well… Not necessarily.”

She gestured at the room around them, the movement threatening to topple the precarious stack of glasses she carried. “It’s just-- it’s nice, isn’t it? To see everyone loosened up, not worried about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties. For once.”

“It is,” he agreed, softly, and gestured at her armload of glassware. “Can I help you with that?”

“Oh-- sure! I was just taking this all to the lounge for washing up.”

“Don’t let’s worry about that tonight,” Tim said. “What do you say? We’ll drop these at the sink, turn out the lights on this lot, I’ll walk you home?”

That sounded like a pretty cracking plan to Rosie, but she suppressed her spreading grin and said, “I can’t! I promised Martin earlier we could split a cab.”

“I think he’s sorted,” and Tim nodded across the room from where they stood. Rosie, following his gaze, picked out Martin and Jon in a shadowed alcove between two of the old-fashioned gas wall sconces. 

Jon must be well in his cups, she realized; he was saying something, maybe telling a story, gesturing broadly and loosely as he did. He was smiling as he talked, pausing for effect, meeting Martin’s eyes and laughing whenever Martin did. He looked more at ease than Rosie had ever seen him. Younger. Or, at least, closer to his actual age.

And Martin, for his part… Martin was leaning into him, his whole body angled to Jon in perfect attention, his warm brown skin flushed and dark eyes sparkling. Rosie watched him nearly slap at Jon’s forearm in reaction to some joke (had Jon told a _ joke? _It was a Christmas miracle) only to shy away at the last moment.

Rosie couldn’t hear what they were saying (strain as she might) but Martin’s happy laughter was unmistakable.

“I bloody knew it,” Rosie said, rapt with joy. “Martin has _ so _got a crush.”

Tim snorted. “You’re just now figuring that out?” Rosie swatted playfully at him.

“You hush! This is lovely. They’re so _ cute _together, aren’t they?”

“Ugh! Please never describe Jon as cute to me again. He’s my _ boss _.”

Rosie laughed at him. “You just don’t want to be upstaged as the cute one!”

“You’re one to talk, Baby Spice.” Tim had stepped close to her again, his chest just bumping the back of her shoulder, his scent filling her head with ideas she’d rather not be having in her office lobby.

“What do you think,” he said in her ear, “Is Martin going to try and tell him he has tinsel in his hair?”

Rosie whirled around. “That was _ not _ a line!”

“Might as well have been,” Tim grinned. He set the cups down on a nearby table, and extricated Rosie’s as well. “Come on. Save the washing up for Monday.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Can I trust you to be a gentleman?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Tim said, and offered her his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all want some cute?? *throws flirting like confetti*


	6. January

“Ms. Herne? Are you alright?”

Rosie was up and out from behind her desk before the woman could fully turn around. She was crying, Rosie could see now, even silhouetted as she was from the watery winter sunshine from the front windows.

“There now, Ms. Herne,” Rosie murmured as she reached her, and laid a hand gently on the other woman’s arm. “Has something happened?”

Naomi Herne shook her head, sniffling, eyes shaded by the hand she had pulled to her face. “It’s-- fine. Thank you,” she ground out.

Rosie was undeterred. “It’s alright if it’s not fine,” she said gently. “Come, let’s get you a cup of tea and some tissue before you have to go back out in the cold.”

“It’s fine, I’m…” but a sob welled up in her throat, and Naomi didn’t finish the thought.

“There’s a good lass,” Rosie said calmly, and steered them toward the employee lounge tucked away by the back stairs, keeping up a stream of quiet chatter as they went. “Cafe’s a bit crowded this time of day, everybody gettin’ sandwiches, you know how it is. We’ll have us a quiet sit just here and get you right as rain...”

“It’s your bloody Archivist,” Naomi said once her hiccuping tears had subsided. The tea Rosie had made her sat untouched by her elbow as Naomi sat wringing her fingers, clearly still agitated. “He’s just-- he’s just infuriating. How someone so rude as that gets decent work is beyond me.”

Rosie patted her knotted hands from across the table. “I’m awfully sorry to hear he was rude to you, ma’am,” she said, sympathetic. “I wish I could say this behavior was an isolated incident, but. Well.” 

Rosie bit her tongue, not quite willing to throw Jon under the bus-- not when he’d finally started greeting her in the mornings and sometimes even answering his desk phone with anything besides his usual, terse ‘ _ What. _ ’ 

“Even so, it’s no way to treat a person, especially one in a delicate state such as yourself. More tissue?”

Naomi waved her away. “I’m fine, really,” she said, and attempted a watery smile. “I, er. I appreciate your kindness, Miss--?”

“Cunningham,” Rosie supplied, “But just Rosie’ll do.”

“Sure,” Naomi said. “Rosie. Well. I’m sure I have taken enough of your time. I don’t mean to be a burden--”

“Not at all,” Rosie cut in.

“--but I believe I would like to see your manager.” Rosie’s heart fell. “I think I-- I’d like to register a formal complaint.”

\--

Rosie rarely ever visited Elias’ office, though climbing the winding old stairs did remind her she was due for a performance review sometime soon. Maybe it’s time to ask for a raise, she thought idly, pausing on a landing for Naomi to catch up. 

“Just a bit further,” she said, and finally they were in the long carpeted corridor that branched toward their tiny HR department on one side, the Research wing on the other, and Elias’ office straight to the end. It was so much more  _ beige  _ up here, Rosie thought, so much like any other old office building. This floor was anomalously normal compared to the sombre echoes of the entry hall that housed her own desk or the dusty grandeur of the top-floor library with its tall arching pillars leading up to frescos of impossible, monstrous constellations across a stormy sky. 

Elias’ office proper was proper creepy, of course, once you got past the bland beige of the hall-- shadowed and musty, with its oppressive dark wood and ancient curio cabinet and something that glinted bone-white from inside. She was pretty sure the room hadn’t been updated since the original head of the Institute had built it nearly two centuries ago.

It seemed fitting, really. If you weren’t into the whole spooky aesthetic, you probably weren’t a good fit for running the Magnus Institute.

She gestured Naomi to take one of the chairs in the hall, and rapped smartly on Elias’ door.

“Rosie?” He called from within. “Come in.”

“Afternoon, Elias,” she said pleasantly, letting herself in. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Everyone knocks a bit differently. I can always tell yours apart.” He smiled at her, placid. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, we’ve got a person here who, ah. Who would like to file a… complaint? It’s the first time someone’s requested, and Ms. Herne asked to speak to you directly.”

His benign expression faded at the mention of Naomi’s name, replaced by something sharp and piercing. “Naomi Herne?” he asked.

“Yes…?”

“Is this to do with her-- ah. Shut the door, would you, Rosie?”

Rosie did, offering an apologetic  _ just a moment!  _ gesture to Naomi. “D’you know her, then?” she asked, taking her seat again.

“No, not directly,” Elias said. “I must have seen your new case entry pop up in the database, is all.”

“But I haven’t entered it yet,” she countered. Elias was a fine boss, generally speaking, but something about him just felt… wrong, sometimes. Slippery.

“Martin must have found the intake form and done it for you,” he said, a note of finality in his tone. “Tell me, Rosie, what did she say to you? From the beginning.”

“Well, ‘hello,’ of course, at the very first, an’ then, ‘I would like to make a statement,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard you will take statements here?’ and I said, yes, we do, happy to help. An’ I escorted her down to the desk in the basement, in that little lounge outside the Archives, you know the one-- and I sat with her as she filled out all the information on her intake form and explained the NDAs, of course, and had her sign off on ‘em, and then showed her where she could use the computer to type it out or the forms for hand-writin’, whatever was her preference. And, er…” 

Rosie swallowed. Elias made her so nervous, the few times she had spoken with him face-to-face in her months at the Institute. Nervous enough to ramble on and say more than she meant to.

“And I asked her to please wait just a moment, that I’d just remembered our Head Archivist had asked me to set up folks givin’ statements with an audio recorder as well, and I would be right back. So I popped up to my desk an’ grabbed the wee gadget and by the time I came back down she was fiddlin’ with the audio recorder on the computer there and it was caterwaulin’ just-- just somethin’ awful. Feedback, I guess? So I apologized to her and said I was terrible sorry to keep her waitin’ yet again but I would be happy to nab the archivist to speak with her direct-like and take her statement that way, since she couldn’t type it out.”

“I see,” Elias said, as Rosie felt the last of the words unspool from her tongue like beads on a cut string. “And Naomi-- Ms. Herne-- did she say anything else to that?”

“Well, now. She did. She sort of caught my sleeve as I deposited my tape recorder with her, and she said, ‘You’ll believe me here, won’t you? That’s what you’re here for.’ So I told her, sincere as I could, that we take every statement extremely seriously and follow up to the best of our ability, and that we were here to help.”

“Rosie,” Elias tutted at her with the air of an aggrieved uncle. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. We’ve been over this before, haven’t we? We  _ aren’t _ here to help.”

“But--”  _ Had  _ they been over it before?

Elias pressed on, ignoring her. “We are here to record and observe. Please be careful in saying such things to the subjects who walk through our doors.”

“Well, I don’t know! It’s just a nice thing to say, isn’t it? Poor thing seemed shaken up by her visit, who knows what happened to her. I just-- I just want people to feel welcome when they come in. Or, you know. Safe, if only for the time they’re here.”

“Alright, Rosie,” Elias sighed. "Tell me, did anything else happen during Ms. Herne's visit?”

“Erm… yes.” Rosie fidgeted, trying to fight the tide of words as they rose in her, then sighed as she said, “When she touched my sleeve, she felt-- cold. Cold, like… like a winter morning when you wake up and the blanket’s on the floor somehow. There was a shock to it. And-- and I know how this sounds-- when she touched me, I forgot she was there. I forgot was I was doin’ for a second, where I was-- everything. It just kind of washed over me, this cold and  _ alone _ feeling, and I wanted to cry. But I shook it off, and she was still there, lookin’ at me wide-eyed, and I could tell she was scared. So I told her-- that’s when I told her we were here to help.”

Rosie let out a long, shaky breath. Even recollecting the desperate chill that had seeped through her clothes from Naomi’s fingers had felt like reliving it, had felt as immediate and terrifying as the moment itself. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, breathed out again, and forced a bright smile back onto her face. She didn’t know if Elias was watching her. She didn’t want to look.

“So anyhow!” she went on, making her voice as warm as she could, “After she came back up, I made her a cup of tea-- she was cryin’ by then, y’see-- and I asked her if everything was alright, and she said… let’s see. Said Jon was infuriatin’, and that she didn’t understand how somebody so rude still had a job.”

“The budget we lose to tea-wielding Good Samaritans will be the death of me,” Elias muttered. He leaned backward, kicking his ankle over his knee, peering at her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Be that as it may. Did Jon give you any trouble when you asked him to take the statement?”

“Jon…? No, of course! He was a right lamb about it.” (Elias cracked the barest grin at this). 

“I didn’t stick around or anything, mind,” Rosie added, “Just told her I’d be sendin’ him in, and knocked round his door to let him know there was someone waiting to make a statement direct.”

“Good, good.” Elias was pleased by that, apparently, and he steepled his fingers together, a smirk still playing about his features. “That’s all well.”

“Shall I send in Ms. Herne, then?”

“Just a moment. While I have you here, Rosie, tell me-- are you satisfied with your post here at the Institute?”

“Why… yes, I suppose I am. I like it here. I like all the folk who work here--”

“Even the rude ones?” Elias interrupted.

“ _ Especially  _ the rude ones,” Rosie said firmly, and sent off a tiny prayer that Jon wouldn’t get in too much trouble for his attitude. Sweet crotchety bastard. “And I quite like getting the students sorted when they come in for the library, or answering curious emails from the public, and, y’know, talkin’ with folk and gettin’ ‘em calmed down or comfortable enough to describe what they’ve been through. Gettin’ to be their first point of contact and all that.”

“You have a knack for it,” Elias said, rather more gravely than she felt was fitting. “I appreciate all you do to maintain strong working relationships across our departments. And to look after our visitors, as with Ms. Herne. I’m sure the Lukas family would be grateful. We are lucky to have you.”

“Well, now! That’s very kind, thank you.”

“And you haven’t felt anything before like the-- the chill that you describe as coming from Ms. Herne, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Rosie said without thinking. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“That’s right, Rosie, very good.” Elias said. He leaned toward her. “You barely remember it now, I daresay.”

“I…” Rosie fought to hold onto her thoughts. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Bouchard, I’ve rather forgotten what I had been saying.” She flashed an apologetic grin that she hoped would pass for charming. Elias returned it readily.

“I’m glad to hear you haven’t experienced anything unusual,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me if you do? If anything seems out of place, if anything frightens or worries you?”

“Yes, of course,” Rosie said.

“Good, Rosie, good,” Elias said encouragingly. “I’m sure you have plenty of other things to worry about.”

Rosie’s attention began to slip again, her mind drifting to her to-do list, the Institute calendar she was supposed to be organizing for the department heads, the toner she had to order for her printer, the stop she had to make at the cleaners once she was off… She curled her hands in her lap, feeling her nails pinch the soft skin of her palms, forcing herself to stay present and focus on what Elias was saying. 

“... to keep your totems about you. Your flowers, your hagstone. It never hurts to seek assurance you are seeing things clearly. I am always happy to assuage any doubts that you might have, should things seem… less than normal.”

“Of course,” she repeated. “I’ll, ah. Keep that in mind.”

“Very good, Rosie. You and I both know the Institute’s reputation is always in question. Having such a sensible, pleasant person such as yourself at our front desk does much to establish us as a legitimate and professional organization in the eyes of the public. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Rosie agreed almost automatically. She was having trouble holding onto his words, her drifting thoughts turning to a stuffy heaviness that blanketed her mind. Probably a migraine coming on, she thought, that’s all.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bouchard, I think I’d like to send Ms. Herne in now. I’ve got a bit of a headache-- might nip down for a painkiller.”

“Very good, Rosie,” he said. His eyes were warm and intent on her. “And you don’t have to call me Mr. Bouchard. It’s just Elias. Remember?”

“Yes, of course. Elias. Silly of me.” She laughed at herself gently. “How could I forget?”

“I always enjoy our chats, Rosie,” Elias said. “See you next week, hmm?”

“Just as you say!” she chirped, and took her leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you so much for your comments and kudos-- they mean the world to me!


End file.
